On this our darkest night,
aurora stains the mountains red,
the impatient blade of morning
bleeds the starlight pale.
No staunch defence
could stem such blackness bled,
nor bar the shaft of golden day,
that all of life should fail.
And once so sure, our hearts entwined
beat the very same,
that spinning in their union
no imposter could unbind.
Yet still the blade of cursed time
split the veil and came
that all which once would always be
was lost to never find.
Rocks will break the oceans top
and spill great sailors to their graves,
where hulls of ships become mere crop,
becalmed, at rest in coastal caves…
echoes of the timbers split
the wash and swell unseen by men,
blown by winds where lovers sit
whose hearts may never love again.
All men are wrecks upon some shore
their journey’s spent, their cargo lost.
For time and tides will wait no more
each voyage sunk beneath its cost.
It wasn’t the morning that came,
nor the night that slipped from the sky,
but somewhere
between dreams
and my waking,
some other dimension
passed by.
It wasn’t an absence or presence,
nor the things with the traces of you,
but somewhere
between light
and moons crescent,
a ghost of you came
shining through.
It must have been something you left,
some intangible force of the heart,
which could never be snuffed
or bereft,
that no
earthly bound force
keep apart.
It must have been something you gave me,
a secret or code buried deep,
that somehow
could reach out
and touch me,
in a world where our love
doesn’t sleep.
They laughed at you,
your accent, your hair, your skin…
your knowledge of nothing
that they believed in.
Your best friend, a Jew
then Vikram the Sikh,
the Haggis, the Kosher,
the words you couldn’t speak.
Your smile now victorious,
when you pass by the School,
the Temples, the Shop’s,
the Cruel Swimming Pool.
The Church your dad built
they burned and defaced,
that they pissed on and cursed,
their own culture disgraced.
Now money buys friendship
no matter your creed,
if you’re off the front line
and signed up to the greed.
The roots are returning
they’re breaking old ground,
the torches are burning
new enemies found.
It’s those who have not,
“A Vermin complete”
the ones now forgot
down there on the Street…
who’ll rise up one morning
too full from their hate,
who’ll kill without warning
who’ll tear down the gates…
whose colours will blend
whose stories converge,
from that bitter end
new worlds will emerge.
Yet it’s all an illusion
there is nothing new,
we kill for amusement
and something to do.
He takes a sack of crumpled shirts,
a puzzle
and a gun.
He leaves with wigs and mini skirts
and “Chuzzlewit”
for fun.
He’s in a Queue at “Waitrose”,
transformed,
an amazon,
all selfish hair and Dickens prose,
prior signs
of him, all gone.
The High Street hums with laundries,
wringing out
their blood-stained cash,
all shiny fronts and tawdry,
there’s pus
beneath the rash.
From pedestals of entitlement,
beflagged
and microphoned,
they profess their own enlightenment
with eyes
as cold as stone.
A cross becomes a Hakenkreuz,
a blessing
a salute,
the masses in their halls rejoice,
their march
a stamping boot.
One thing becomes another,
it sheds
alluring skin,
its prey too late
discovers,
the reality within.
And the pit is full of bodies,
disguises stripped
and gone,
all hope of change,
our folly,
they built their lies upon.
A face as smooth as glass
that time has fallen from,
tracks of tears have passed
the weight of years moved on.
Hands purpura petalled
fold like angels wings,
hair as gentle snowflakes
a midnight clear might bring…
a robin on a window ledge
a flower full in bloom,
the sacred vow of loves long pledge,
a summer gone too soon.
And yet the song we hear is light
it lifts the leaden heart,
for dark with all its fearful night
can ne’er two lovers part.